


Aberrant Data

by Karios



Category: Forever (TV 2014), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Case Fic, Crossover, Episode: s01e11 Skinny Dipper, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/pseuds/Karios
Summary: The next number was unmistakably the one Harold had assigned to Dr. Henry Morgan, technology-averse medical examiner and police consultant, quite possibly born in 1779."Do you realize what it means, if you're right, Finch?""That no one can be a deadly threat to an immortal man? I've considered that.""Worse, if he is the threat, how do we stop him?"
Relationships: Abe Morgan & Henry Morgan, Harold Finch & Henry Morgan, Harold Finch & John Reese, Henry Morgan & John Reese
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54
Collections: Crossworks 2020





	Aberrant Data

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sea_level](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_level/gifts).



> This fic would not be even close as good as it is without my beta, and I cannot possibly thank Morbane enough for betaing this. Not only for catching all of my mechanical errors, but also for helping me to find a solution to a giant plot hole in an earlier draft.
> 
> sea_level, the canonical character death tag refers to the deaths which took place in Skinny Dipper.

Harold wasn't surprised that the Machine flagged Henry Morgan. He was aberrant data. The photodata alone was a problem for the Machine’s facial recognition programming. Images of the same man, in his mid-thirties at Harold's best guess, stretched out across time, and which showed him having lived all over the planet.

It seemed like a bug or a glitch of the Machine itself at first. When that proved false, Harold considered the possibility that it was some sort of group case of identity fraud, carefully maintained by frequent moves, a minimal digital footprint, and expertly-performed plastic surgery. However, Harold could find no record of the latter, and worse yet, no discernable purpose for such elaborate subterfuge. 

Whomever 21st-century Henry Morgan currently of New York actually was, he didn't appear to have profited off any potential scheme. He lived comfortably but not extravagantly. He had recently applied for work as a medical examiner, far from a glamorous vocation. Nor was he in any significant trouble; apart from a handful of nuisance and curious public nudity arrests, his records—all of the Henry Morgans’ records, in fact—were clean. The harder Harold dug, the more ordinary the man seemed. Ordinary, apart from the fact he had an identity stretching across the world and more than two centuries and had quite possibly risen from the dead, if everything the Machine complied was to be believed. Of course, it wasn't all to be believed, was it? 

Curiouser still, some of the records Harold discovered were sloppy forgeries. And yet, all they’d been used for was to secure Henry modest employment, reasonable housing, a place in the British military, and—on at least one occasion—a marriage license. It was the picture, March 18, 1955, of a Dr. and Mrs. Morgan beaming into the camera that shifted things for Harold. He understood that kind of love, important enough to make mistakes for, to take risks for. And that kind of loss.

“Dr. Morgan,” Harold tsked at his computer screen. “You'd have never fooled the NYPD with these.” Amateurish work offended Harold on principle. Whatever Henry was up to, he'd be doing it with a much better set of documents from now on, and a more secure identity. 

A handful of days after Harold's sorely-needed interference, Henry Morgan got his job in the medical examiner's office. Harold meant to keep checking in, to poke away at the mystery again sometime, perhaps even cash in on the favor. But there were the Numbers, and then John, and chaos, and a war that upended nearly everything Harold had built, and somewhere along the way, Harold forgot.

Until the next Number the Machine sent Harold was unmistakably the one Harold had assigned to Henry Morgan.

* * *

“I have a very unusual number for you today, Mr. Reese,” Harold explained.

“Why do I get all the fun? We have a team now.”

“Ms. Shaw and Ms. Groves are currently otherwise occupied. I'm sure they'll step in if they can. Besides, I thought you'd enjoy a challenge.”

“Unusual and challenging? This is some Number. What makes this guy so special?”

“Henry here has one of the lightest digital footprints I've ever seen. No cell phone, no personal computer, no email address, not even a rewards' club card!” While this wasn't strictly news to Harold, it did make the job more difficult.

“Are we helping out a member of the Amish?”

Harold swiveled to shoot a sharp look at John. “You jest, Mr. Reese, but we might as well be. However, what we do have on him are an address and employment records. Dr. Morgan is currently working as one of the medical examiners for the NYPD. He lives in a shop, Abe's Antiques, with the proprietor, near as I can tell.”

“At least we know where to find him,” John offered.

“When he's not investigating at all hours,” Harold replied. “He's taken to following a homicide detective, Jo Martinez, around. As her unofficial partner, he is helping her solve murders for the precinct, alongside diagnosing causes of death.” Harold smiled at that. It looked like Dr. Morgan had found his own way toward doing good.

John made a throat-clearing noise that encouraged Harold to continue. “From the carefully written case reports—I've seen enough of our detective friends' reports to know—I suspect a fair amount of whatever he's doing is being left out. Whether to protect him—”

“Or because he's a threat?” John guessed.

“Precisely. I can't conclusively determine anything.”

“You're thinking that he could be investigating the murders to push blame onto someone else?”

“Possibly,” Harold acknowledged, though he wasn't overly fond of the possibility.

“You don't sound convinced.”

“I'm not.” Harold frowned at the screen again. “If he is an incredibly sophisticated serial killer, I suspect his number would have come up more often, and I wouldn't think he'd get himself arrested so often.”

Harold called up Henry's booking sheet. John bent over Harold's shoulder to take a look.

“They are all for public nudity. Dr. Morgan claims to suffer from somnambulism. Sleepwalking,” Harold commented.

“Maybe he's telling the truth, and also sleep murdering.”

“Sleepwalking doesn't regularly extend itself to such extreme activities as homicide,” Harold said offhandly, though even this remote possibility was unsettling. “I haven't shared with you the most unusual aspect of Dr. Morgan’s life yet.”

“There's more. Great.”

Instead of acknowledging that, Harold called up a collage of photographs that had been the Machine and Harold's greatest source of confusion a few short years ago. The way the men in the photographs wore their hair had changed several times over the decades, and the clothes differed, but they all matched the man in the middle of their board.

“He's a historical reenactor in his spare time?”

“Good guess, but no. Some of these images seem to authentically date back all the way to the dawn of the photographic arts. Henry Morgan is either an identity for a group of remarkably similar-looking men stretching back to 1779…”

“Or he's one unaging man who's 235 years old? That's—”

“Impossible? I know. But we've seen and lived the impossible ourselves.”

John scoffed. “Not like this. This is science fiction.”

“So was the Machine, once upon a time,” Harold fired back.

“You honestly believe in immortality?”

“No. I don't know. I'm open to a lot more possibilities than I once was,” Harold replied with an air of finality.

John went back to studying the photo collage in the heavy silence that followed. “Do you realize what it means, if you're right, Finch?”

“That no one can be a deadly threat to an immortal man? I've considered that.”

“Worse, if he is the threat, how do we stop him?”

“If we confirm that, then we can determine how to cross that proverbial bridge.”

John's pinched expression conveyed he had a number of questions but he shelved them in favor of asking, “Where to?”

* * *

“Anything to report, Mr. Reese?”

“Not so far. Henry's gone to work and come back to the antique store. I think it's time I get in closer.”

Harold had no objections to that. If Dr. Morgan was a threat, direct contact would make that clear very quickly. If he wasn't, well, perhaps he'd be amenable to John's help. “Feel free to proceed, Mr. Reese.”

* * *

Henry had just succeeded in persuading Abraham to go with him to explore beneath the pier for the caller’s discarded antique firearm, and they were still amidst rehashing the old debate about whether Henry should seek Jo’s help, when a rapid knock at the front door interrupted their argument.

“Who could that possibly be with the store closed?” Henry wondered aloud.

“Maybe it's Jo and you can finally take my advice.” Abraham hustled toward the front door. Henry followed, hot on his heels.

“Whom I tell and when is not your decision, Abraham,” Henry insisted again.

Abraham pulled open the door and frowned at the man on the other side. “You’re not Jo, and I'm afraid we’re still by appointment only.”

John offered him a thin smile. “I’m sorry to disappoint, and I'm not actually here for antiques.” He flashed his badge. “Detective John Riley, I'm...working the Raj Patel case,” he said with just a slight pause. “A contact suggested you might be willing to help or have a lead I could chase down.”

“Surely, you can coordinate with the rest of the department in the morning, Detective,” Abraham said coolly.

Henry looked John over. “I would remember seeing a man of your bearing around the precinct. Especially after that gifts presentation.” He muttered the last bit.

“I’m not with the Eleventh, actually, but the Eighth. Raj’s case is personal.” John leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t just want to be kept in the loop on this one. I want to do something.”

It was probably imprudent to accept the assistance of a complete stranger, but all Henry could think about was his possible shot at identifying the caller lying at the bottom of the Hudson. The longer he waited, the longer Adam had to retrieve the weapon himself. It was too big an opportunity to ignore. "Detective, how do you feel about a trip to Pier 40 on the Hudson for some loosely-sanctioned evidence-hunting?"

"Now that sounds like action. I can leave anytime," John agreed.

"Wait here one moment." Henry shut the door lightly in John's face.

He headed quickly to his room. He gathered his goggles, a towel, and re-dressed, all the while ignoring his son’s irritated glare on him.

“Are you insane, Henry? A man shows up at our front door out of the blue and you're inviting him on this fakakta plan of yours.”

“Think about it, Abraham, with a police escort I can leave now. Retrieve the gun without waiting for the cover of nightfall.”

“Which is a good reason to call Jo, or even the lieutenant, and not a man you just met. What if he's only agreeing because he’s the caller, trying to keep the gun out of the real cops' hands?”

“Now who's being paranoid?” Henry asked, defensive, even as doubt nagged at him. “He doesn't even sound like Adam, for one thing.”

“Anyone who speaks more than one language can use an affected accent, or there's technology these days, voice modulators.” Abraham sighed. “Just be careful.”

“I shall try my best,” Henry promised.

* * *

“Everything all right?” John asked conversationally, as Henry joined him outside.

Henry gave John a wary smile. “I should be asking you the same thing. I'm not the one who lost someone recently.”

“Taking action helps.”

“By investigating personally? Isn't that a bit of a challenge?”

John considered his answer for a beat. All he knew about Henry so far was that he appreciated risk-taking. John decided to lean into that. “Yes, but there’s something to be said for doing things yourself. I don’t mind bending the rules, if it means saving the next one from ending up as work for you or one of your colleagues.” 

“Seems like you're in the wrong line of work, Detective.”

“You and your usual partner haven't gotten to anyone in the nick of time while working a case? Put a stop to it?”

“Once or twice,” Henry acknowledged with a nod.

“Worth it, right?” John pressed.

“Absolutely.”

“Then you get it. My car’s this way,” John headed in that direction for a handful of strides, before stopping. “Unless you’d rather?”

“I don't drive and I’d prefer not to catch a cab under the circumstances.” Henry just barely suppressed a shudder. “Your car is fine.”

The conservation ended naturally there, but they caught themselves eyeing each other as they slipped into their seats. Henry chuckled, though there was an edge to it.

“What's so funny?”

“If I didn't know any better, I’d think we were harboring the same suspicion. Namely that the other man in this car is dangerous. I know why I’ve reason to be suspicious of you but not the other way round.”

“Tread carefully, Mr. Reese, if my suspicion is correct, Dr. Morgan...” John tapped his ear discreetly, cutting off Harold. 

“Occupational hazard. Try not to take it personally,” John suggested.

“Your current occupation, or one of your former ones?” Henry asked. It was irritatingly perceptive.

“All of them, just about. Satisfied?”

“No. How did you know Raj Patel?”

“I didn't. I missed the chance to save him.” John started the car, and pulled away.

If anything that answer only made Henry more ill-at-ease, but what was he to do? Come right out and ask if John was an agent of Adam’s? If this Detective Riley were working for Adam, it wasn’t likely he'd be forthcoming about it, for obvious reasons.

“What are we looking for at the pier?” John asked, interrupting Henry's thoughts.

“An antique gun,” Henry replied, carefully observing John for a reaction to that information.

There wasn't one, except the comment, “That's not the murder weapon, Raj Patel was killed—”

“With an antique sword,” Harold and Henry confirmed simultaneously.

“The gun is...” Henry hesitated.

“Complicated, I understand,” John answered for him.

The rest of the drive was quiet, save one final direction from Henry to direct John where to park. As they stepped out of the car, John asked, “What about you? Why does a dead cabbie warrant you taking a polar swim?”

“Every life is precious. Raj Patel had friends and family. Hopes and dreams. He mattered. And while investigating the end of his life can't bring him back, offering closure to his loved ones might bring them some measure of peace.” 

Henry's position on the value of human lives reminded John of Harold's speeches about the same. 

“There,” Henry pointed down at the water below. He looked confident that he'd located the gun and John nodded.

Henry stripped down easily despite the cold, and folded his clothes neatly.

“How can I help?” John asked, as Henry got settled on the edge.

“Keep an eye out for any stray squad cars full of less accommodating officers.”

“You don't want to be arrested again?”

Henry grimaced.

“Sorry. Word traveled on that one.”

“Well, yes. Just throw a rock if we run into trouble.” With that, Henry dove into the ice-cold water without a backward glance.

“He really doesn't strike me as a threat, Finch.”

“Me neither, Mr. Reese, and all things considered, that's even more terrifying.”

John's phone rang, interrupting them. He checked the display then answered it with, “Not the best time, Fusco.”

“When is it ever?” Fusco grumbled. “You're needed here at the Department, partner.”

“Now?”

“More like ten minutes ago.”

John sighed, and picked up a nearby stone. He chucked it into the water below, not really expecting it to work.

Yet, Henry surfaced, his skin tinged blue-purple. “I nearly got it,” he complained. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry, but I have to go! Urgent business!” John shouted down, then got in his car and drove off.

* * *

Later that evening, Henry warmed up with a steaming mug of soup and pointed grumbling about how he could have gotten the gun if he’d had a few more minutes. 

“So you'll have to ask them to send a dive team, like you should have in the first place,” Abraham replied unsympathetically.

“I suppose,” Henry conceded. He tapped his mug, deep in thought. “I still don't know what to make of Detective Riley.”

“He's hiding something. I didn't like him just turning up, and I like him even less now that he left you hanging in the river.”

“He’s definitely hiding something, but not all secrets are malicious.” Henry gestured to himself, musing. “Perhaps I should take his example and pay him a visit in the morning.”

“I’d tell you to be careful, but goodness knows you won't hear me.”

“It's a father's prerogative not to listen.”

Abraham rolled his eyes. “Just drink your broth.”

* * *

“I need you to get to Bellevue Hospital,” Harold said. “I'll fill you in on the way."

“Turning around now,” John answered. “This about Henry?”

Harold hummed affirmatively. “Yes, in a way. It's a point of commonality between Raj Patel and Richard Smight, otherwise known as Henry's last two autopsies and Detective Martinez's most recent cases. I'll spare you the grim details, but it seems Richard Smight was killed in such a manner meant to point all evidence back to Dr. Morgan.”

“So he _is_ a sleep-murderer or just a killer?”

“Neither. For one thing, the murder weapon had been stolen. Sadly the Machine never got a good look at the thief which is quite a feat. Under other circumstances I might—”

“Finch,” John cut him off firmly. “What's the other reason?”

“Oh right, Henry also has a very strong alibi. He was still attempting to interrogate Detective Fusco when the body was found, still newly dead.”

“And he couldn't have gotten from where Smight was found to the precinct by then?”

“It's unlikely enough that his police colleagues are erring on the side of Dr. Morgan's innocence and allowing him to accompany Detective Martinez to Bellevue to keep investigating.”

“Any luck uncovering what they're hoping to find there?”

“They believe a patient might have had reason to kill both men. Unfortunately, decently stored patient files do take a bit of maneuvering to crack. Fortunately, I can — and aha! Clark Walker. He assaulted both Patel and Smight, and has a violent history besides.”

“If we already know all that, then I'm here just to keep an eye on Henry and Martinez?” John asked as he parked.

“By all accounts Clark Walker should be inside the hospital; he is presently scheduled for therapy.”

John wondered what to do about that. Threat or no threat, it wasn't as though he could gun the man down inside a hospital. “Don't suppose you could narrow that down from every man here?”

“A picture is on its way.”

As John settled against a wall just past the lobby and waited for the image, Henry and Jo Martinez arrived. The detective dashed past John to speak with someone in Human Resources, and left Henry in the same hallway a few feet from John.

“Both victims worked here, and both left due to a physical altercation with the same patient.” Martinez reported back to Henry.

“Which patient?” he asked.

“They won't tell us. We need a court order to open the patient files.”

Henry sighed heavily. “There's no time for this.”

John spoke up then, moving away from his place against the wall. “You're looking for Clark Walker.” 

“Detective Riley.” Henry was surprised.

“You know this guy, Henry?” Martinez asked.

“I do," Henry confirmed, though he didn't volunteer more. 

“That's fantastic, Mr. Reese,” Harold chided sarcastically. “Put them in each other's path before we’ve figured anything out.”

“He has a right to know,” John whispered. Then louder to Henry. “The patient’s name is Clark Walker. He’s here somewhere.”

Detective Martinez glared at John. “How do you know that?”

“You’d never believe me if I tried,” John said, holding up the phone for them to get a look at Clark’s picture.

“Great, another one of you, Henry.” Martinez rolled her eyes, but turned to the receptionist. “NYPD. Is there a Clark Walker here?”

“He just checked out.”

“Lock it down,” Martinez demanded. She repeated the statement, then reached over and hit the button to do just that herself. 

Alarms blared. A voice over the P. A. system intoned that they should not leave the building until further notice. The three of them doubled back toward the front entrance, where one man alone steadily made his way to the doors.

“There,” John and Henry exclaimed at once, spotting Walker in the same moment. John, Henry, and Martinez struggled upstream against the mass confusion in the lobby.

“Stop him!” Henry called out, but no one paid any attention.

Fighting through the crowd was just enough of a delay that Clark slipped through the doors a second before they locked shut in his pursuers’ faces.

“No!” Henry cried out plaintively. John watched as he pressed his face to the glass, pounding on it with both fists. 

John weighed their options. Either he could wait several minutes for the alarm to run its course and then for the hospital to get them open again or...

“Finch, get the doors.”

“Already on it,” Harold said, and then the doors swung open, even as the alarms kept wailing overhead.

The three of them poured outside. Henry stared at John in open-mouthed surprise, while Detective Martinez's expression was angrier. Both of them seemed to have temporarily forgotten about Walker.

John intended to take off after Clark Walker regardless, but the detective grabbed his arm hard. While John could have pulled away, he didn't want to hurt her. “Your suspect is getting away!” he reminded her.

“A suspect you identified,” she pointed out. “How do we know he's not a scapegoat?”

“You have been rather involved in this case,” Henry chimed in.

John used his free arm to fish for his badge for Detective Martinez's sake. “Call the Eighth precinct, you can verify it.” He then proceeded to wait for her to do exactly that, minutes ticking by as she made her calls.

Henry asked next, “How did you perform that trick with the door?”

“Connections. A friend with technology.” John sighed. It was clearly the wrong thing to say as it only seemed to put Martinez more on her guard, but he couldn't worry about her. John turned his attention on Henry. “Whenever the warrant comes through, you'll find out that Clark Walker assaulted both Raj Patel and Richard Smight. He's a killer, with a documented lack of empathy. You don't have to believe me, but I'm going to stop him before he hurts someone else if I can.”

Martinez finally declared John free to go, as Henry said, “I'm going with you.”

Martinez contradicted him. “No, you're not. We're going back to the precinct to put out a bolo.” Henry looked between them, clearly torn. “Remember what you said about investigating without me,” she reminded him.

Henry caved and nodded. “You're right, of course. Please, go on. I'll be along in just a moment.”

As soon as Detective Martinez left the two of them alone, Henry asked John, “You're positive about Mr. Walker?”

“Yes, and the more time we spend here, the bigger his lead,” John insisted again.

“Then you're not a detective, or not just a detective. I don't buy it. Not with those kinds of resources, and not with a willingness to go charging off on your own after someone you believe to be a dangerous killer.”

So Henry was insisting on this conversation, and as much as John wanted to say this all could wait, if he wanted any hope of sticking around long enough to see any of this through, he needed to do something to quell Henry's suspicions. 

“I'm not,” John admitted, seeing the truth as the fastest way out. “I get information about people. Some of them are in danger, likely to be murdered soon. Others are threats to someone else's life.”

“And Clark Walker was on your list?”

“No, Henry, you are.”

Henry looked less surprised by this than John had expected. He met John's eyes. “Which one am I?”

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

“What do you do with people on this list of yours?”

“If they're in danger, I protect them. If they are the danger, I get them out of the way.”

“You might find either one more challenging where I'm concerned,” Henry warned him.

Detective Martinez started back toward them then. “Henry, do you want a ride or not? We're on a clock here!”

Henry raced to catch up with her.

“It's usually prudent to stick with the Number,” Harold said then as John took off toward his own waiting car.

“Nothing's going to happen to Henry at the police department. I'm following my instincts on this one. We need to be the ones to find Clark Walker first.”

“Working on it, Mr. Reese.”

* * *

It felt far longer to John, but it took less than an hour before Finch called back, saying, “I’ve located Mr. Walker. He’s in the Morgans’ antique store. Specifically Dr. Morgan’s basement laboratory.”

“How?” huffed an exasperated John, wondering specifically how in the world no one besides Harold had thought to check there.

“I had Ms. Shaw place a few cameras. As for how he got in, I didn't see. Is that relevant?”

“No. I’ve got to warn Henry.” Only a couple of blocks away, John broke out into a sprint toward the building.

As it turned out, Henry had a significant lead, and as John turned onto the block, Henry was mere steps away from his own front door.

“Henry! Dr. Morgan, wait!” John screamed.

Either Henry couldn't hear John or worse was deliberately ignoring him as he let himself into the building.

* * *

Henry descended the stairs leading to his basement lab. A record was playing. The haunting Latin dirge was something Abraham would not have chosen, and never played at this volume. On any other day, the significance of the words to the "Dies Irae" might have been more of a clue. Henry called out Abraham's name as he continued toward the phonograph. As soon as Henry pulled the needle free, he heard the creak of floorboards. Henry turned to find himself face to face with the one man everyone was looking for: Clark Walker.

“Where's Abraham? What did you do to him?” Henry demanded to know, his voice filled with the trepidation he felt at the possibility that Clark might have... No, Henry couldn't allow himself to think like that. “What do you want?!” he added in a snarl.

Clark unsheathed a long sword, likely the same one that had cut down Raj Patel’s life. Whatever Henry had expected, it wasn’t Clark saying, “Kill me, Henry.” Clark knelt down slowly. He set down both blade and sheath with a clank, like an offering. “With this.” 

“You're insane.” Henry took a few steps forward. “I won't do it,” he vowed. Even if Clark was the caller, even after the threats, the torture, the brutal deaths he had suffered at the man’s hands, Henry couldn't.

* * *

John pushed his way into Abe’s Antiques and had about to call out to Henry again, when Abe returned home. “Listen,” John said urgently, “I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me, but I happen to know that there’s an escaped mental patient in your basement, ready to kill Henry. I'm going down there to stop this, you need to get clear and call the police. Please.”

“Henry!” Abe called anyway. “That Detective Riley is here.”

“Dammit! You're going to get him killed. Go!” John hissed. He pushed Abe back before running for the stairs.

* * *

The commotion upstairs had Clark reaching for the sword. Henry dove forward, ready to grab it first. They struggled, Henry tossing Clark off him. Clark retaliated with a blow that knocked Henry into a bookshelf. Clark then gained the upper hand, pinning Henry under him. Their hands latched onto each other's throats. 

Henry landed a kick that knocked Clark off of him. He rolled over and got up onto his hands and knees, determined to put himself between Clark and the stairs. His relief at discovering Abraham was still alive, now turned to terror as he heard footfall on the stairs.

“It's John. I got Abe out safety.”

“Detective, stay away!” Henry begged. Clark tackled Henry from the side, toppling him over.

Henry squirmed free, pulled himself over the table, and scrabbled for his letter opener. He missed his mark, and Clark’s hand closed around the blade first. Clark immediately thrust the small blade forward. Henry dodged an immediately fatal blow but the blade sunk painfully into his chest. 

The time it took to pull it free gave Clark space to back away. It also gave John a clear shot. He took aim and fired, taking Clark out before he could charge again.

“Excellent shot, Detective.” Henry gurgled, his face growing ashen.

“I'd say it was a little late under the circumstances,” John replied, before dropping his knees at Henry's side. He pressed a hand to the wound.

Henry cried out in pain. “That's not going to do any good, I'm afraid,” he rasped.

“I was hoping you wouldn't say that.”

Henry turned to look at the now very dead Clark Walker, who was staying right where he was. A pool of blood was spreading on the floor underneath his body. He was dead and almost certainly not immortal. Clark wasn't the caller.

Abe made his way down the stairs. “What the hell?” he asked in a shocked whisper.

John pulled his hands free from Henry's chest. “This,” he indicated Henry's prone form, “wasn't my fault.”

“It's true,” Henry confirmed, mustering his waning strength. “Clark did this.”

Abe moved over to John, clasped his shoulder. “I think it's best we get you upstairs.”

John stood up, but refused to go. “You’re being remarkably calm about this. Have you even called the police yet?”

Abe didn't answer him right away, his gaze flitting anxiously between John and Henry. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Abe cursed under his breath. “You really need to go, now.”

Henry's eyes blinked open again. “But first, may I borrow your gun, Detective? Consider it a last request if you like. Abe will see that you get it back.”

John set his gun on Henry's chest, then surrendered to Abe's pleas that he get upstairs. John hoped that Finch had been right and not that he'd just given into some kind of collective hysteria. He winced all the same as the gunshot rang out. Abe did too, which made John feel a little better.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen next, but the sticky drying blood disappearing from his hands came as a shock. “What the hell?”

“Dr. Morgan just disappeared,” Harold reported from the phone still on inside John's jacket pocket. 

John stopped marveling his fingers long enough to extract the phone. “He disappeared?”

“Who the hell are you talking to?” Abe demanded to know.

While both the anger and the question were understandable, given everything that had just transpired, they were also quite tiring. John hated the suspicious types. “A friend, and I'm willing to explain more if you are.”

Abe just glared at him, stony silent, though he eventually broke John's gaze to look toward the door instead.

“Look, the police are going to have to be called eventually. Clark was shot with my gun, so I need to be here to explain. I also need to know if there's going to be two bodies down there for them to find or not.”

“Why wouldn't there be?” Abe asked, delivering the question with such conviction that he could have worked for the Agency.

John sighed. Harold said, “Put me on speakerphone.”

“My friend. For you.”

John half expected Abe to simply hang up the phone and throw him out. 

“Hello Mr. Morgan. I'll cut right to the point,” Harold began. He spoke quickly leaving no room for the other man to interrupt him. “I installed cameras in your basement in an attempt to prevent what happened tonight. Unfortunately, John and I failed.”

“You did what?”

“Installed cameras. Do keep up,” Harold snapped. “The relevant point being that I know for a fact that Henry Morgan's body is no longer in your basement.”

“And you seem awfully eager to get somewhere by the way you keep glancing at the door,” John added.

“We already know he's immortal. Or rather, we suspected up until now. And if I'm also right that dying has to do with how often he ends up in the river then you could probably use a hand right now.”

“You're both crazy, and I can manage on my own,” Abe declared, folding his arms in front of him.

“Except that you can't. You and I need to be here to deal with the police.”

Abraham shook his head, so John changed tacks. “If I really meant either of you any harm, I could have easily shot you when you arrived, or left Clark Walker alive.”

At this Abe looked utterly defeated. “What do you want from me?”

“To help,” Harold reiterated. “I can explain to both you and Henry, but only if you're willing to trust me first.”

“Head toward the East River. You'll need towels and dry clothes.”

* * *

“I'm not here to hurt you,” Harold said, as he handed Henry the clothes, keeping his eyes mostly averted. “Your son-slash-roommate is unfortunately dealing with your police colleagues. As is the man you know as Detective Riley. Abraham let me know where you'd be.”

Shock, hurt, and betrayal flitted across Henry's face and Harold could see his mind whirring. 

“He didn't tell me, Henry. I already knew. And no, as much as it probably seems like it, I'm not the caller who keeps threatening you. Nor is John. Nor, sadly, was Clark Walker, as you unfortunately discovered.”

Henry towelled off and dressed carefully. Despite the frigid December air, he refused to take his eyes off Harold. “Who are you, then?” Henry asked through chattering teeth.

“My name is Harold Finch. And I can help you. We live in an increasingly digital world, Dr. Morgan, and if I can find your secret, so can anyone else, given enough time.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Henry stuttered unconvincingly. 

Harold huffed. “I know this is difficult, but you've already trusted John. We know the truth now, and I'm sorry to say that without our help, you're in more danger than just that posed by your stalker.”

“Is that a threat?” Henry asked, managing to look angry despite the bone-tired exhaustion he must be feeling.

“Not from me, Dr. Morgan. Please let me get you home and give you the facts, and then if you want John and myself out of your life, we'll go.”

Henry followed Harold to a waiting car.

* * *

John had seen for himself that Henry's body was missing from the basement when he retrieved his gun, and he had heard Abe direct Finch to go pick Henry up. And yet, it was a whole other experience to see it confirmed, Henry unharmed in front of him. He swallowed his surprise as Henry excused himself for a hot shower. 

Abe served them reheated scones, scotch, and hot tea. Finch introduced himself. “My name is Harold Finch. Terribly sorry to meet under these circumstances.”

“Abe Morgan. Ditto.”

After that, they sat in loaded silence and partook in the world's most tense tea party until Henry returned and took his seat next to Abe. 

“We are being watched,” Harold began. “There is a Machine scanning for threats, big and small, to human lives. Compiling data worldwide, though John and I concentrate our efforts on the city of New York.”

“Doing what exactly?” Abe asked, his tone sharp.

“Saving people, when things go right.”

John spoke up then. “I didn't lie to you, Henry. We do our best to protect people.”

Harold took up the mantle again. “It was the Machine that identified you. Given your condition's rarity, it couldn't make sense of the conflicting data about you. Your face across time, your various birthdates, et cetera.”

Henry nodded. “This is all very interesting, and it certainly explains why the pair of you were suspicious about me, but—”

“Henry's been in danger aplenty,” Abe put in, irritated now. “He was killed just before the two of you showed up poking around.”

“Ah, but not mortal danger. My theory is that because you can't truly be killed, the Machine dismisses all threats against you, even if it couldn't understand why,” Harold explained.

Abe snorted, but Henry merely nodded. “Well that's certainly pragmatic. Go on.”

“I dismissed the anomalies surrounding you at first. Whatever the reason for the conflicting data, it was clear you weren't violent nor dangerous, and that was my main concern,” Harold said.

John took over from there. “Until a couple of days ago, when the Machine flagged you as either in danger or a threat to someone else's life.”

“But wait a second, you just said this machine ignores all threats against Henry!” Abe objected.

Harold and John exchanged a look. “It's our best guess that had John not been there...” Harold trailed off.

“You would have killed Clark Walker,” John finished.

“I would have,” Henry confirmed. The color drained from his face. “Nothing would have stopped Abe from coming down the stairs. To protect him, I would have.” Henry took a large gulp of scotch.

John nodded. He and Harold waited as Henry digested this news.

Harold spoke up again, his tone gentle. “In light of the truth about your...”

“Curse,” Henry supplied.

Harold nodded. “We understand that discovery is a threat to you. As I said at the river, if I could put the truth together, so can others, even those with fewer resources. Your precarious web of forged paperwork won't be enough soon.”

Both of the Morgans nodded. 

“Harold can help. He can't prove it to you, but he can help you outrun this problem much longer than you would alone,” John explained.

Disbelief and relief warred within Henry. Not about Mr. Finch's abilities—anyone with a grasp of twenty-first century technologies stood a better chance than Henry himself did—but his motives remained a mystery. “Why?” he asked simply.

“The right question, Dr. Morgan. I want you to help us save other people flagged by the Machine. You're uniquely equipped to help us protect those in mortal danger,” Harold answered.

“It's getting to them in time, saving the next one,” John echoed his earlier words from their conversation at the pier.

“A natural extension of your life as a physician and a police consultant,” Harold said.

Henry's face fell. “It does sound appealing. However, I like my life as it is.”

“You don't need to sign on full-time,” John said, glancing toward Harold for confirmation.

Harold nodded vigorously. “We aren't here to uproot you from your life. This is an offer, not a threat. We understand you better than you probably realize. We juggle this work around other commitments too, all while protecting secrets of our own.”

Henry stared contemplatively into his tea for a long few moments before meeting the eyes of the two men sitting across from him. He'd had 235 years to practice judging human sincerity, and it currently radiated off Harold and John. He glanced over at Abe, who nodded approvingly.

He still had concerns and questions, but their argument was compelling. How could he turn down any chance to protect lives? “Gentlemen, I'm in.”

The Machine accessed Henry. His status changed to: Asset.


End file.
